Camino Real, just over the Menlo Park line, called The Oasis.
They had made it into a sort of clubhouse for their group. There was a familiarity about the place that gave them comfort, something unpretentious about the garish green martini glass on the neon sign out front and the rotund waitresses inside. The floor was covered with a thick layer of sawdust, creating a roadhouse feel. Juicy burgers arrived at tables in red plastic baskets, color-coded toothpicks marking the cheese. The fries were crisp and hot, the pitchers of beer frosty and cheap. There was a scruffy crowd, a mix of deliverymen and the local bowlers who tolerated the students in their midst.
With Alexander, she had ridden over to the guys’ house, rolling on their bikes down streets with bucolic names like Lemon and Orchard. Alexander had produced some pungent Mendocino buds and they had gotten high along the creek bed at dusk, savoring the smoke and the easy talk it brought forth.
Later in the evening, they were all gathered in the bar. Barry was impressively drunk, his hands gripping Booth’s shoulders as he egged the others on and called for another round. Branko was holding his own, working on a late burger, deep in conversation with Lee. They drank from their mugs, soaking in the welcome camaraderie. It had been another long week running tutorials and composing thesis chapters in the student carrels lining the Serra House hallways.
Rachel, her back turned to Barry, was ensconced in the corner booth, engaging Mickey. Their conversation had started as light banter, in keeping with the mood of the evening. She remained gracefully buzzed from the sunset joint. She had felt provocative ever since, unconcerned about the sense she was, or wasn’t, making. She was pleased to suspend her insecurities and assume everything came out sounding profound.
Mickey was retelling stories from one of his adventures in the Colorado mountains. Rachel was amused and curious. She wondered, as she often did, at the components of his kaleidoscopic personality that flashed through his beery grin. She was seeing Mickey in a new light this night. She was fascinated by his ability to be all things to all people. He was a consummate performer. Here was a guy who could track bear on horseback, but also ace the college boards. Here was a guy who could sweet-talk the hard-bodied California beach girls, but who also spoke fluent Mandarin.
For some reason that night, she had probed deeper. Mickey had been teasing her about her primal fears, snakes and spiders, and asking about her phobias. She had suddenly turned toward him and leaned right into his face. Holding him with her eyes, she asked him directly: “Simple question: name that which you fear most.”
Mickey shucked and jived a bit. His shoulders would actually drop as he rolled back from the hips, maneuvering to laugh it off. Rachel just held her pose, prodding. “Give it up, Dooley.”
“You’re really serious?” he asked after a while.
“Dead serious. No dodging this time.”
He stroked his chin, throwing her yet another sideways grin, then peered beyond her, searching for one of the gang to rescue him. It was to no avail.
He smiled cautiously as he began. “That which I most fear. . .”
“Yep.”
“Sheesh, got me there. I mean, just between you and me?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“The truth is,” he said, “I’ve always been afraid of dying young.”
“Dying young?”
“Yeah.”
“Bullshit. You push the edge all the time. Cliff-diving, hang gliding out at Point Reyes, all that survivalist stuff you guys do out in the desert.”
“No, Rachel. I mean, I think that’s why I do it. The waste of dying without having fully lived. Scares the hell out of me.”
“I’ve never seen you afraid,” Rachel countered, regarding him skeptically. “I’ve never even seen you flinch.”
“That’s the point,” Mickey said. “It’s probably death defiance. I just think it would be fucking
They had made it into a sort of clubhouse for their group. There was a familiarity about the place that gave them comfort, something unpretentious about the garish green martini glass on the neon sign out front and the rotund waitresses inside. The floor was covered with a thick layer of sawdust, creating a roadhouse feel. Juicy burgers arrived at tables in red plastic baskets, color-coded toothpicks marking the cheese. The fries were crisp and hot, the pitchers of beer frosty and cheap. There was a scruffy crowd, a mix of deliverymen and the local bowlers who tolerated the students in their midst.
With Alexander, she had ridden over to the guys’ house, rolling on their bikes down streets with bucolic names like Lemon and Orchard. Alexander had produced some pungent Mendocino buds and they had gotten high along the creek bed at dusk, savoring the smoke and the easy talk it brought forth.
Later in the evening, they were all gathered in the bar. Barry was impressively drunk, his hands gripping Booth’s shoulders as he egged the others on and called for another round. Branko was holding his own, working on a late burger, deep in conversation with Lee. They drank from their mugs, soaking in the welcome camaraderie. It had been another long week running tutorials and composing thesis chapters in the student carrels lining the Serra House hallways.
Rachel, her back turned to Barry, was ensconced in the corner booth, engaging Mickey. Their conversation had started as light banter, in keeping with the mood of the evening. She remained gracefully buzzed from the sunset joint. She had felt provocative ever since, unconcerned about the sense she was, or wasn’t, making. She was pleased to suspend her insecurities and assume everything came out sounding profound.
Mickey was retelling stories from one of his adventures in the Colorado mountains. Rachel was amused and curious. She wondered, as she often did, at the components of his kaleidoscopic personality that flashed through his beery grin. She was seeing Mickey in a new light this night. She was fascinated by his ability to be all things to all people. He was a consummate performer. Here was a guy who could track bear on horseback, but also ace the college boards. Here was a guy who could sweet-talk the hard-bodied California beach girls, but who also spoke fluent Mandarin.
For some reason that night, she had probed deeper. Mickey had been teasing her about her primal fears, snakes and spiders, and asking about her phobias. She had suddenly turned toward him and leaned right into his face. Holding him with her eyes, she asked him directly: “Simple question: name that which you fear most.”
Mickey shucked and jived a bit. His shoulders would actually drop as he rolled back from the hips, maneuvering to laugh it off. Rachel just held her pose, prodding. “Give it up, Dooley.”
“You’re really serious?” he asked after a while.
“Dead serious. No dodging this time.”
He stroked his chin, throwing her yet another sideways grin, then peered beyond her, searching for one of the gang to rescue him. It was to no avail.
He smiled cautiously as he began. “That which I most fear. . .”
“Yep.”
“Sheesh, got me there. I mean, just between you and me?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“The truth is,” he said, “I’ve always been afraid of dying young.”
“Dying young?”
“Yeah.”
“Bullshit. You push the edge all the time. Cliff-diving, hang gliding out at Point Reyes, all that survivalist stuff you guys do out in the desert.”
“No, Rachel. I mean, I think that’s why I do it. The waste of dying without having fully lived. Scares the hell out of me.”
“I’ve never seen you afraid,” Rachel countered, regarding him skeptically. “I’ve never even seen you flinch.”
“That’s the point,” Mickey said. “It’s probably death defiance. I just think it would be fucking
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